


The Perks of Being Dragged Into a Rave

by dylanofuckme (theplaidchesters)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Happy Brownies, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Stiles is a DJ, Tattooed Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplaidchesters/pseuds/dylanofuckme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Go over there and charm a guy. People say the DJ is cute… and gay.”</p><p>Derek grimaces. “Christ, Lydia, I’m not going to flirt with the fucking DJ.” </p><p>His taste in music is probably awful anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perks of Being Dragged Into a Rave

**Author's Note:**

> It started out thanks to this prompt: "please write sterek fic where one of them (cough stiles) is a tatted up plaid wearing dj and derek was dragged out to his show by someone and oh no the dj is cute" and I couldn't resist. The fault is on you, Paige.

Sometimes, Derek wonders why is he keeping Lydia around.

    For example, right now, she’s babbling about some rave that’s taking place downtown, on an abandoned warehouse, free drinks and black lights. And Lydia has the nerve to ask him to go with her. She actually wants his opinion. There must be a trick somewhere, because this isn’t Lydia. Lydia doesn’t care what other people think.

    When Derek politely declines the invitation and gestures at the bunch of papers he still needs to grade, Lydia smirks. “You know better than anyone that it doesn’t matter whether you want to go or not—I’ll still drag you to this thing.”

    There will be a lot of people, and they’ll probably be semi-naked because Danny told her a body-painting artist was invited to the party. Alcohol, of course, and deafening music in charge of this young-but-promising DJ named Stylinx (or some _shit_ , my god, musicians these days), with a side of wild hormones and most definitely groping. The rave sounds like a Derek Hale’s Less Favorite Things Convention.

    “I’m a grown-ass man, Lyds,” Derek tells her, eyes fixed on the essays scattered all over his desk. “You can’t possibly force me to go somewhere I don’t want to.”

    “Well, I’m not going if you’re not going,” she says, crossing her arms. “So be ready to hear me complain all night about it… I might throw my heels at you at some point, I don’t know.”

    Derek endures twenty minutes of her bitching before giving up.

 

* * *

 

The rave takes place on an abandoned six-stored building that looks like it’s about to crumble to pieces. Derek stares at it and thinks about The Burrow and magic keeping it from falling. Lydia gives him a little nudge on the arm, urging him to walk at her pace; they manage to go in without going into the long queue when Lydia flashed at the guard two identical tickets.

    “Danny’s boyfriend, Ethan, remember Ethan?” Derek nods, going through a lengthy, narrowed tunnel of some sort. He can already hear the muffled music and cheering, so he does his best not to flinch. “Well, Ethan’s twin brother, Aiden, said wanted to meet me.”

    Derek throws a quick side-glance at her. “You think you’re ready?”

    “It’s been months, Der. I’m not sure if I’m ready yet, but _god_ , I need to move on. Besides,” Lydia says, whipping her hair over her shoulder, “he hasn’t called, or answered any of my texts.”

    “You texted him? Lyds—“

    “It was stupid, I know. Won’t do it again.”

    They stop in front of a sliding door, metallic and probably heavy, considering its size and thickness. A huge man standing next to it gives them a dirty look, but Lydia’s already showing him the tickets.

    Derek remembers going to a rave like a thousand years ago—it took place outdoors, legs half-covered in mud and other disgusting things, weed and acid pills going around the place like water… beer, ‘magic’ mushrooms, couples shamelessly doing it in broad daylight. They are no different, this rave and the other, except for the black lights and body painting.

    Also, the music is so loud he can barely hear himself think.

    A wave of phosphorescent bodies is dancing and jumping on the dance floor; they’re not only phosphorescent, but also semi naked and sweaty, which, _gross_. The worst thing is, you have to go through that mass of people if you want to get to the bar, and Derek came to this place to drink in order to avoid people. Definitely not dancing. He’s terrible at it.

    “Wanna get a drink?” Derek asks Lydia, gesturing at the bar section. “It’s on the other side.”

    Lydia makes a disapproving sound with her tongue. “I just texted Aiden; told me to wait here. But you go ahead… if things go wrong, I’ll meet you there in a while.”

    “I could stay and wait—“

    “Derek, it’s fine.” Lydia places a hand over his shoulder, squeezing a bit. “I’ll be fine. Have fun; you haven’t done that in ages.”

    “Hey, I have fun. I go out.”

    “Going for a walk with Bradshaw doesn’t count.” She smirks, though Derek knows by now there’s no malice in it. “Go over there and charm a guy. People say the DJ is cute… and gay.”

    Derek grimaces. “Christ, Lydia, I’m not going to flirt with the fucking DJ.” His taste in music is probably awful anyways. “You take care, okay? Call me if anything happens.”

    “Yes, _dad._ ” She rolls her eyes at him, gives him a gentle slap on his ass. “Go.”

    He takes a deep breath before being swallowed by the crowd.

 

* * *

 

The DJ is actually very cute, Derek realizes. He’s just reached the bar when his attention focuses on the (extremely) young boy on stage. Plaid. He’s wearing gray plaid, which is ridiculous since he’s a fucking DJ, he shouldn’t be wearing _plaid_ … but somehow it fits him perfectly. The shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to mid-arm, revealing inked skin—both arms are tattooed to the fullest, but his hands seem clear of them.

    And he has a nice face too, childish, though incredibly good-looking. Somewhere behind Derek’s brain tugs insistently at the sight, but he dismisses it with a shrug: he’s very good when it comes to ignoring important thing. It’s just the way he rolls.

    Derek curses—because he doesn’t need his unconscious making its appearance, at least not right now—and goes straight to the bar, taking a seat in one of the stools. He asks for two shots, gulping them down without a second thought, and lets his eyes wander across the room, filled with bodies, lights and smoke. It is an attractive sight, he’ll give them that, but Derek can’t even be bothered at the moment. Not when he’s on his way to another round of José Cuervo.

    And _not_ when the view from that particular stool is an impressive frame of DJ Stylinx and his amazing, tattoo-covered forearms. Damn.

    Derek is emptying his fifth shot of tequila when the pull from before finally snaps.

    Could it be? Could that young, fine man standing on stage be that horrendous, sensual nightmare from his young TA years? His legs are abandoning the stool and making a forward motion—he wants to check. He probably stares for too long, he doesn’t know. Derek feels dizzy and everything’s blurry, but his suspicions are cleared when the man turns and _oh_.

    That’s him.

    That’s the nose, that’s the mouth.

    Those are the fingers.

    The DJ stops laughing and smiling, which is bummer, and gawks right back at Derek. He looks confused at first, totally saying ‘Derek Hale?’ at him because Derek knows how to read lips, but then he looks pissed. Like stop-looking-at-me-or-I’ll-cut-you kind of pissed, and it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.

    It still hurts, though.

    Lydia rescues him from doing something stupid, like going over there and telling him they’re two consensual adults now. So the moment breaks and Derek finds himself staring at Lydia accompanied by a new person, a redheaded male with scary eyes and a naked chest, wearing what it looks like a false set of fangs.

    “Hey, Der, this is Aiden,” Lydia says, introducing both men. “He’s Ethan’s brother.”

“She’s told me about you,” the other man greets, though the sounds coming from his mouth sound somewhat muffled by the fake teeth. “I promise I won’t hurt her.”

    Derek shrugs. “’S fine, don’t worry.”

    “She’ll probably kick my ass if I do, so…”

    “That’s a good probability, yes,” Lydia agrees.

    It’s not like Derek wanted to stop listening, but after a while their conversation turned a little bit too _ugh_ for him; he entertained himself ordering another round—beer, this time. And for some reason, his head wouldn’t stop turning to the stage, on which the DJ was having the time of his life.

    “Something wrong?” Lydia asks, noticing his sulkiness.

    Derek grunts, taking a swing from his beer. “Just the DJ.”

    “Hey, he’s good,” Aiden retorts, slightly offended if the frown was anything to go by. “And young—very acclaimed, considering his age.”

    Try very attractive and sinfully tempting.

    “You’re brooding because you don’t like the music?” Lydia rolls his eyes at him. “Derek, honey, you’ve done it—you’ve reached a new level of grumpiness, congrats.”

    He doesn’t stand a chance with this girl. “It’s not that, it’s… god, remember Beacon Hills High? I was a French TA back then.”

    Eyes narrowed, Lydia nods. Aiden is off somewhere, probably ordering drinks, so Derek continues. “The boy, who kept throwing cheesy pick-up lines at me and being, you know… a horny, sixteen-year-old teenager?”

    “You definitely told me something about permanent blue balls, yes.”

    “Well, that’s—“ and he points at the stage, DJ Stylinx blasting a rare remix of Second Summer (unfair), and Lydia follows his finger until she spots him.

    Even with the loud, obnoxious music, Derek can hear her take a deep breath. “That’s him?”

    “That’s Stiles, yes.”

    Lydia whistles. “You told me he was an appalling, luscious boy with a buzzcut and awkward manners, not that… fine-looking man.”

    “It’s been over six years, Lydia, of course he’s changed.”

    Stiles changed in every best way possible; from afar, he didn’t look as scrawny as before, and he had grown a few inches, too. He had dropped the buzzcut and now his hair was all over the place, somewhat long and spiked. Has Derek mentioned the tattoos, because damn.

    “You also told me you ended up rejecting him and changing schools,” Lydia states, eyeing him carefully. “Did he ever…?”

    “He hates me.”

    “I’m sure he doesn’t,” she says, mid-snorting, mid-laughing. “He was a teenager, it was his job to hate the world. You’re adults, now. You should go and try to talk to him.”

    Derek doesn’t move; he stands there, taking another gulp from his beer. Next to him, Lydia sighs. “And by ‘should’, I mean ‘must’. Go.”

    “But I…”

    “ _Go_.”

    It’s probably a very stupid idea, going up there and saying what exactly? _Hey, I was the douchebag from Beacon Hills; ring any bells?_ Nah, it wouldn’t work out. But soon enough, he’s standing right in front of the stage, and a pair of huge hands keep him from getting any closer. A tall, scary, dark-skinned man is on his way, looking at him as if he were some sort of pitiful vermin.

    He feels like a vermin, to be quite honest.

    “DJ Stylinx doesn’t take requests,” the man says, bored as fuck.

    Derek, on the other hand, is feeling brave as fuck. “He’ll take mine.”

    “Don’t think so, buddy.” The man (guard?) makes him walk backwards, colliding against some sweaty chests and body parts covered in neon colors. “I’m going to ask you to stand back.”

    He feels like the greatest loser in the entire planet—he’s making a scene, people are staring at him—and it only gets worse when he looks up and sees Stiles throwing knives at him with his eyes, shoulders tense and stiff. He’s also looking down at Derek the way you look at a cockroach, but then again, Derek never had too much hope on this mission.

    “Still hates you?” Lydia asks when he returns to the bar.

    “Yep, not even a second glance.” Derek gestures at the barman for two dry whiskeys. “I made a fool of myself.”

    Lydia places a hand on his shoulders. “Oh, honey…”

    “Don’t.”

    Luckily for him—and for Lydia’s feet and sanity—he doesn’t throw up when he’s drunk to the bone; actually, he manages alcohol quite fine (must’ve been all those college years of practice and break ups). It’s just that he turns into a kicked puppy whenever he’s on drinking mode, but at least he’s not violent or impertinent… that’d be sad.

    “We should dance,” Lydia pipes. “Dancing will help your—“

    “Dancing will only get me worse,” Derek retorts. “Have you seen the dance floor? It’s impossible for me to get in there and make it out alive… or free from murder charges, for that matter.”

    Aiden (that dude just randomly shows up whenever he pleases, _god_ ) intercedes because, apparently, he happens to know exactly what Derek needs. “Do you what might help?” he says, too cheerfully, high on something, maybe. “Getting you some paint, man.”

    Both Lydia and Derek stare at him. Seriously? “What? You don’t have any body paint on you,” Aiden remarks. “It helps to get you all loosen up and whatnot.”

    “You think?” Lydia raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow at Derek, who’s currently looking at her on an I-can’t-believe-you’re-considering-this-nonsensical-idea way, with a side of an I-thought-we-were-friends glare. “Hey, I’m gonna do whatever it takes to tear that frown off your face, you hear?”

    Clapping ( _clapping!_ ), Aiden smiles too pleased with the whole situation. “Perfect, I’m gonna bring Kira… she’s awesome. You want me to get you one of these?” He points at his fangs. “They even have one of those Miley-Bob teeth.”

    “I’m good, thanks,” Derek deadpans, watching Aiden shrug and withdraw himself into the crowd. With the same bored-as-fuck voice, he turns to Lydia and says, “Well, he’s a keeper.”

    She shoves at his shoulder. “Shut up, he’s a fun kid. It’s a nice change, you know.”

    “You’re already comparing him to Jackson, I’m stunned.”

    “And you’re being a real bitch and drinking way too much whiskey,” Lydia snaps back, pinching Derek’s left nipple. “Stop criticizing based on your current sour mood and be objective.”

    “Ow, that hurt — and I don’t know, Aiden’s okay, I guess. A little too perky for my taste.”

    Lydia makes that disapproval tongue-sound again. “Magic brownies.”

    That gets Derek’s attention. “Where? I want one.”

    “No way. You’ll probably fall asleep on me or start dry-humping the stool.”

    “Why am I still your friend?”

    They share what they call ‘their secret smirk’, which implies they’re okay. How have they managed to be friends without killing each other in their sleep, is still a mystery. Aiden interrupts the moment, bringing along a young woman (younger than Derek, anyways) with long, black hair and almond-shaped eyes.

    “Hey guys, this is Kira,” Aiden says, gesturing at the lady with a lot of enthusiasm. “Her skills are _crrrazy_ , I’m telling you.”

    Kira does a shy wave. “Hi, so… face or body?”

    There’s no way he’s taking his shirt off in the middle of a barely hygienic building. “Face.”

    “Make it both.”

    They turn around, all four of them. Derek’s worst, sweetest nightmare is standing right there, arms folded across his chest, not as tall as before but he’s definitely intimidating as fuck. Well, at least to Derek, who practically worships the ground Stiles walks on. Still, he looks as if he were there against his own will, the glare from his eyes still digging into Derek’s face.

    His arms and the ink on them are distracting factors. It’s not fair.

    “Hey, you know, that’s a very good idea!” Aiden chirps. “You’re the DJ, right? Big fan of your work.”

    “Thanks,” Stiles says, looking down.

    Derek has the sudden urge to discard every piece of clothing from his body and throwing them away. “You don’t have any design, either.” He manages to form a sentence without screwing it up; it must be his lucky day.

    “I’m more fond of the permanent type,” Stiles claims, extending both arms and revealing the inked skin. “But I could be persuaded…”

    It’s on.

    Somehow, Derek peels off his shirt without getting stuck in the process, and because he’s feeling very brave, he throws it at Stiles’ direction. It gets him straight in the face. Kira chokes back a strangled laugh as Lydia and Aiden suddenly remember they’re meeting Ethan and Danny on the _other_ side of the building, waltzing away from the bar and leaving them to Kira and their luck.

    Kira starts doing her thing, tracing some weird ass patterns across his stomach, chest and neck, and they’re being observed very closely by none other but Stiles Stilinski, who’s currently clutching at Derek’s shirt so tightly his hands are shaking. But when he meets Stiles’ eyes, he looks away, folds his arms across his chest and pretends he hasn’t seen a thing.

    Which is total bullshit.

    “I didn’t come down here because I wanted to, you know,” Stiles says, still not looking at him. He seems very interested on a couple grinding against each other. “Scott told me to.”

    “Oh.” Derek shifts, trying not to mess up Kira’s work. “Who’s Scott?”

    Scowling very hard, Stiles lets out a very audible snort. “My best friend since _kindergarten_. We even went to high school together, shared the same classes… sound familiar?”

    Yes, he remembers now: both of them being inseparable, Stiles always talking about Scott and how sick and tired he was of his relationship with Allison. _They’re nauseating, all they do is kissing and fighting_ , Stiles used to complain. Actually, he remembers every single conversation he shared with Stiles, maybe because they were so occasional; it’s sad, he knows this already.

    He won’t admit it Stiles, that’s for sure.

    Not when he approached Derek against his own, and definitely not when Stiles’ got that killing glare, capable of going all Cyclops on an entire room.

    Derek clears his throat and looks at Kira; she seems uncomfortable. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He doesn’t know what else to say. “I never wanted—”

    “You never wanted a damn thing.”

    When he looks up at the murderous tone, he finds Stiles shooting daggers with his eyes. Does Derek feel guilty about it? A little. Does he deserve it? No way.

    “You were sixteen!”

    “I didn’t care.”

    “All done,” says Kira, sounding like she wanted out immediately. “Anything else?”

    Derek is stunned when he looks down and notices Kira’s work: a whole galaxy painted across his chest and abdomen, bizarre planets printed on his arms and shoulders, and entire constellations scattered across his neck. She did all that in less than twenty minutes, and the painting glowed under the light in a way Derek could only do but stare at it.

    “Okay, that’s fucking awesome,” Stiles points out. “I want some. Face only.”

    So Kira pulls out her paint and brushes and starts working on Stiles face and neck, which is kind of hypnotizing for Stiles’ neck is one of Derek’s favorite parts, next to his eyes and mouth. Also, his hands are huge (how and when did that happen?) and his ass looks delectable under those tight, tight jeans.

    “Take a picture, buddy,” Stiles The Asshole grits out, not looking amused at all. “Why don’t you close your mouth before a fly gets in?”

    Snorting, Derek would have crossed his arms, but he doesn’t want to ruin Kira’s masterpiece. “Why don’t you shut up before I make you?”

    The bastard smirks, raising an eyebrow and giving him a shameless once over, but says nothing as he looks away. Derek wants to crawl under the earth and never come out.

    Kira places a final dot on Stiles’ cheek (not that Derek was looking intently, not at all) and steps back. “That’d be it,” she says, proudly. “And guys, a word of advice? Resolve this ongoing… sexual tension between you two before it ends up slicing everyone on the dance floor in _halves_.”

    They both watch her flee and busy herself with a girl; Lydia is nowhere around, Aiden doesn’t show up when he’s needed (as usual) and Derek is getting nervous and desperate. Stiles doesn’t look too different, to be honest. Derek calls that improvement.

    “It’s not that I hate you,” Stiles finally says. “Because I don’t, okay? It’s — it really pissed me off when you left just like that.”

    “I’m sorry,” Derek replies, looking down. “I had to.”

    “Because I was annoying you,” Stiles declares, like an understatement. When Derek opens his mouth to retort, Stiles cuts in, ears pink even under the black and minimal light. “You should’ve said something.”

    At this, Derek honest to god laughs. “I talked to you a million times. You didn’t listen. Au contraire, you got worse.”

    “Do not come in here and talk to me in French,” Stiles threatens, pointing a finger at Derek. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

    Maybe it’s the last two whiskeys he had earlier, but Derek feels brave again. “I remember more than you think, Stiles.”

    It feels like an eternity as they stare into each other’s eyes, though they can’t really tell because the place is too dark, but they definitely feel it in the bone — it’s similar to the first time they met, when Derek was a naïve French TA eager to learn and follow Miss Morell’s steps, and he was also unarmed, defenseless against Stiles’ overenthusiastic hormones. The sleazy compliments (in French!) were the worst of Derek’s year — next to the constant blue balls, of course.

    “Aren’t you supposed to be DJing, or some shit?” Derek asks; the silence became unbearable. “What are you doing down here, with the mortals?”

    “I came to talk… I took a break. It’s a valid option,” Stiles replies, shrugging. After giving him a second once over, he does this weird, motion movement with his head. “You should come.”

    “And where to, exactly?”

    Stiles extends his arm, wiggles his fingers so Derek could grab them (?) and, with his free hand, indicates the stage behind him. “Up there, of course. Scott’s there, too.”

    “I’m afraid your bodyguard kicked me out earlier,” Derek remarks, linking his fingers with Stiles’, hearing, in the back of his head, actual gear teeth clicking. If he starts discerning (or at least trying to) Stiles’ forearm tattoos, that’s his own business — and probably the tequila has something to do with it, too. “Don’t think he’d be too happy to see me.”

    To his surprise, Stiles laughs. “Sorry about that, it was all me,” he says, unapologetic. He starts walking, leading Derek’s way by fucking holding hands, what a sap. “Saw you from afar, deduced you were coming to talk — I was bitching, Boyd’s a huge guy… do the math.”

    “How mature,” Derek snorts.

    Stiles squeezes Derek’s fingers (hard) and throws at him a menacing glare, but when he turns away, his thumb caresses all the skin it can reach, carefully, lovingly. It causes Derek to stumble with his own feet.

    “The good, ol’ Scotty noticed my tantrum so he intervened,” Stiles continues. “Made me realize I was being childish, urged me to behave like an adult — you know; wise stuff best friends tell you when you’re being dumb.”

    Lydia’s advices and nipple pinching come to Derek’s mind. “I’ve had my share.”

    “I bet. We’re here.” They stop to a halt when they reach the stage, Boyd already making his way to meet them. He eyes Derek warily, but when Stiles nods at him, he steps aside.

    With a final (and endearing) last smile, Stiles says: “Come on, Scott’s dying to meet you… again.”

 

* * *

 

The sight from Stiles’ cabin is magnificent — the dance floor is right under his feet, but the entrance and bar are also visible. Derek’s previous spot next to the bar is easily perceived, and _maybe_ he spent two or three minutes imaging Stiles following every move he made.

    Dreaming doesn’t cost a damn thing, all right?

    “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Stiles asks behind him, making him jump (on a manly, gracious way). “It’s addicting. I honestly can’t picture my life without the crowd jumping, cheering at me…”

    “Modest.”

    “Shut up, you know what I mean.” Stiles punches him on the arm. As Derek rubs the spot, Stiles makes one of his weird ass gestures, this time motioning at the whole place. “This — this right here is my passion.”

    “Your passion is extremely loud,” Derek observes. “You could say you were made for each other.”

    “Dumb.”

    He smirks, even if Stiles has turned his back on him… his ears are pink again, how adorable. Derek, however, composes himself, since he’s no teenager. “And where’s Scott? I though you said he’d be here.”

    Stiles’ head snaps up, and his eyes narrow, searching for him into the dim, phosphorescent light. “I could have sworn — hey, Alli, where’s Scott?”

    “Bathroom!” a pretty, black haired girl yells. Her eyes land on Derek. “You brought him?”

    “Shut your cake hole!”

    He wants to tease him, maybe poke him on the ribs because apparently, he’s fourteen years old. Derek knows, however, he’d be pushing his luck. “Wait, did you say ‘Alli’?” he asks instead. “Like, Scott’s Allison, from high school?”

    Stiles’ face is priceless. “How the fuck do you remember that?”

    “Hey, I listen,” Derek says, nonchalantly. “So, you were telling me…?”

    Turns out it is the same Allison from back in high school. Somehow, they managed to stick together through all these years, and their relationship couldn’t be better — “… just like our bromance” Stiles says, proudly. They’re engaged to be married, which means Stiles is going to be the best man, which means Stiles is scared shitless. When Derek tries to calm him down and strokes soothingly his lower back, not only Stiles’ ears turn pink but his whole face, burning red.

    Stiles teaches Derek DJ Equipment 101 — the basic stuff, he says, but it turns out to be pretty damn difficult. Derek can’t even pronounce Stiles’ turntable name, but Stiles can’t make the French ‘r’ or the nasal sounds, so it doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

    “With this button… there, see? You create a playlist.” His hands are all over the place and they’re very distracting, his fingers are too long… Derek starts picturing terrible scenarios. That is, until something around Stiles’ wrist catches his eye. “And this one — it’s called BEAT Display. Basically, it shows you the beat position on a song and… are you even listening to me?”

    Without thinking, Derek reaches and takes Stiles’ hand very carefully. By some miracle, Stiles doesn’t flinch back. “What,” he barks, annoyed.

    “ _Bésame Mucho_ ,” Derek mutters, tracing the handwriting with his index. “You have _Bésame Mucho_ tattooed on your wrist.”

    Stiles’ eyes practically bug out from the shock. This time, even his neck turns bright red. He coughs and steps back, colliding against the laptop table. “So? It’s a song, so it’s whatever — doesn’t mean a thing, okay? A bolero, big deal… a woman’s song, how shocking... I could’ve had tattooed _Teenage Dream_ but heh, had too many mescal shots that night and, well, I — stop looking at me like that!”

    “You’re a terrible liar,” Derek sneers. “Bésame Mucho is my favorite song.”

    “How unoriginal.” He looks down at his turntable, as if he were searching for a more viable answer, or probably a hideaway. Maybe both.

    Derek grunts. “It’s actually my second…”

    “Your second favorite, yes, I know.”

    Stiles fumbles with the first two buttons of his plaid shirt and pulls down at the collar of the under tee, revealing a patch of skin. At first sight, it appeared clear of any trace of ink, but then, beneath the collarbone, capital letters read: _Je ferai un domaine où l’amour serai roi_. Buttoning up his shirt again, Stiles lets out a breathy sigh. “Happy?”

    He must be fucking clueless.

    “Very,” Derek responds. “It’s a good verse.”

    “A good ve—? Jesus Christ.” As he scratches his neck, Stiles shoulders slump. “In my defense, those were the first tattoos I got.”

    Derek speaks before he can stop himself. “They’re perfect.”

    “I made a remix out of those songs.”

    “You did not.”

    “I did,” Stiles admits. “It was my very first—Jacques Brel featuring Stromae, and Consuelo Velázquez with a touch of Calvin Harris. You would’ve been proud.”

    “I’m going to kick you.”

    They burst into a laughter fit that gets too many curious eyes, but it doesn’t matter. Derek doesn’t know how, but Stiles’ right there all of a sudden, and the tiny planets and stars Kira drew on his face are still visible in spite of the sweat. Some moles were used as planets, Derek notices. Kira’s skills really are _crrrazy_. Their fingers find their way and they cling to each other, afraid of letting go. Once their eyes meet, Derek can’t look away.

    He leans closer and whispers, “You were sixteen.”

    “I know.”

    “I was your TA.”

    Stiles joins their foreheads, but says nothing, so Derek carries on. “You kept giving me inappropriate boners and a serious case of blue balls.”

    At this, Stiles stumbles back. “The fuck you said.”

    “I said…”

    “I heard you, it’s just — I thought you hated me.”

    Derek wants to laugh his ass off. “Hate you? My god, I wanted you so. fucking. much.”

    “But you…” Stiles is having a hard time to find his words, but a blissful grin is making its way on that pretty, pouty mouth of his. “At class, you did nothing but to scowl at me, always giving me a hard time — you kept sending me extra homework…”

    “Your French sucked.”

    Stiles punches him on the (naked) chest. “You asshole!” he yells, grabs Derek by the nape and slams their mouths together.

    Very manly, Derek whines at the first touch, but then realizes he has to step on his game and returns the kiss as fervently as Stiles’ lets him, because honestly, he’s doing most of the work, devouring his mouth, making these little needy noises that go straight to Derek’s heart and then further down. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ back; he throws his arms around Derek’s neck — it’s amazing how easily they fit, how even after all these years and without a beforehand intimate contact they manage to match their mouths and body incredibly well.

    Stiles clenches his arms, nearly suffocating Derek, but it’s okay. He could die like this and be okay with it. “I’m twenty-two, now,” he says, out of breath, still overdressed. “And you’re no longer my TA.”

    Laughing, Derek pretends he’s nauseated. “I’m still way too old for you.”

    “Shut your face and kiss me.”

    The crowd becomes the audience, and Allison is screaming (probably for Scott, who’s still in the bathroom) but they don’t care. Derek strokes Stiles’ cheeks as he kisses him, takes his slow, sweet time with that mouth of his — he sucks at that bottom lip, then tugs at the other one with his teeth. It’s delicious how easily Stiles opens up when he nudges at his lips with his tongue, how the moans he elicits from Stiles’ mouth go straight to his cock. He’s hard, of course he is. He’s having a Fourth Kind encounter with his favorite things… sue him.

    There’s a whistle. Stiles is the one that breaks the kiss, but if his eyes are anything to go by, he’s not too pleased about it. “We’re making a scene,” he breathes, stroking Derek’s nape with his long (and talented, oh my god) fingers. “We should — somewhere else.”

    Derek gives him a gentle peck. “You’re the DJ, Stiles. You should be entertaining the guests.”

    For the first time, Stiles looks disappointed. “If you had paid any attention back when I was showing you my turntable, you’d know that there’s a Playlist button.”

    “And?”

    “And, dumbass, it means I can press it and — voilà. No need for me to be up here.”

    Smirking, and being the sap that he is, Derek eskimo-kisses Stiles. “How unprofessional of you. Lead the way, then.”

    He knows he’s very gone when Stiles does this victory dance and Derek finds it endearing, but he doesn’t care — he knows it since the day he got dumped by someone and he proceeded to jerk off reminiscing Stiles’ mouth sucking a pen. It was sad and very fulfilling, and no one needs to know that.

    “Are you two finally getting a room?” Allison asks, smiling at them. “Thank god, I was about to throw up.”

    Stiles gives her the finger. “You’re just jealous I’m about to get laid right now and you’re stuck in here without your lousy boyfriend.”

    “You caught me.” The girl shrugs, the smile never leaving her face. “Be safe, boys… and if you see Scott, tell him to hurry up!”

    When they climb down the stairs, Stiles only stops when he yells at Boyd: “I’m taking a break, Verny!”

    There’s a disgruntled sound. Derek guesses it’s from Boyd. “Don’t call me that — and another break? You took one twenty minutes ago!”

    Unapologetic, Stiles gives him his best ‘sorry-not-sorry’ smile. “This one might take a little longer,” he says, and pulls at Derek’s hand, leading him through the crowd, getting a few ‘congrats’ and ‘atta boy’s on the way. It’s ridiculous, but the truth is, the whole situation is absurd.

    “I can’t leave the building until five am,” Stiles says, coming to a halt when they stop in front of… seriously? “So this will have to do.”

    A bathroom.

    “Doesn’t look very hygienic,” Derek observes. “I can wait.”

    “That’s three hours away, Derek. I can’t.”

    The door swings open and a very sweaty Scott (judging by the hug he shares with Stiles) appears in front of him, a dreamy smile plastered across his face. His eyes are somewhat red. “Hey, man! Been looking for you everywhere,” Scott slurs, too happy for a normal person. “Did you know there are brownies that are magical? Like… real magic, Stiles!”

    Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “You’ve been eating brownies in here? You passed out, didn’t you?”

    “Heh, I think I did. I mean I woke up two seconds ago, but I…”

    “Listen, Scotty,” Stiles says, steadying his friend as he places a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Alli’s looking for you. You can’t just disappear like that, dude.”

    “She mad at me?” Scott honest to god looks like he’s about to burst into tears. “She totally is, she might even throw the ring at me…”

    Stiles rolls his eyes at Scott. “Jesus, of course she’s not — buddy, you’re just high, okay?” He combs the other man’s hair with his fingers. “Straighten yourself up and go up there; you’re in charge of the turntable.”

    A grin splits Scott’s face. “Yay! That’s awesome!” After sharing another bear hug with Stiles, Scott notices Derek. “Hey, you’re Derek, right? You were our French TA.” When Derek confirms it with a nod, Scott turns to Stiles, smiling wickedly. “You two are about to — you totally are getting some right now!”

    Stiles does an overdramatic face-palm. “Not if you continue cockblocking the way.”

    Confused at first, Scott looks back at where they were standing. His eyes widen as he finally _gets it_. “Oh, you mean the bathroom! The bathroom, Stiles? Really?” Derek wants to kiss his hand. That is, until — “Again?”

    Okay, Derek’s confused as hell now. Next to him, Stiles fidgets, looking nervous. “Oh my god, shut the hell up and stop cockblocking me!”

    “Fine, but ah — you two have everything, right? Condoms, lube…?”

    “I’m about to be one best friend short if you don’t go away,” Stiles deadpans, taking Derek’s hand and urging him to walk. “I’m not even joking.”

    With a little wave, Scott leaves them, yelling over his shoulder: “I’ll tell Boyd to come over and watch the door.”

    Stiles only lets out an exasperated sigh as he pulls Derek into the bathroom. They’re not alone, for there’s a man standing on a corner, looking fishy as hell. Placed over the sink, there’s a pile of Tupperwares, crammed with appear to be brownies. The man stares at them.

    “Hey, dudes,” he greets them. “Want some?”

    “Take your shit and leave; I’m not telling you twice,” Stiles commands. Derek does not find bossy!Stiles extremely arousing. Nope. “I’m sure there are other places for you to sell that crap.”

    “It’s not crap,” he retorts, packing his containers anyways. “They’re high-quality happy brownies… I only use the best weed in town.”

    Stiles shrugs, opening the door for him. Derek notices Boyd is already there. “Whatever, man, just leave — or I’ll have that guy over there,” Stiles points at Boyd, “kick your sorry ass.”

    As they watch him run for his life, Boyd shakes his head at them. “Stop treating me like I’m your personal thug, Stilinski. I’ve told you a thousand times.”

    “You should know that he doesn’t listen,” Derek can’t help but add. “I know this from experience.”

    “Ha, I like this one. Maybe you should keep him, for a change.” Boyd shoots him (for the first time) a wolfish grin, and Derek would be extremely proud of this accomplishment but he’s currently worrying his ass off trying to decipher Boyd’s words. “Go on, then — and keep it to yourselves. I’m not interested in hearing any of it, understood?”

    Stiles snorts. “With this music? You won’t hear a thing.”

    “Thank god for that.”

    When the door is closed and it’s just the two of them, Stiles takes control and has Derek walking backwards until he collides against the sink. The tile is freezing, so he yelps. It’s not manly this time, but he doesn’t have the time to weep about it because Stiles is kissing him and it’s the greatest thing ever. Stiles’ mouth should be a World Wonder. Derek fumbles with Stiles’ plaid shirt, ripping it off his shoulders only to find the under tee blocking the way.

    “Fucking hell, too many layers,” Derek barks out, scratching every inch of skin he can reach. “You’re way overdressed.”

    “Do something about it, then,” the smug bastard replies, already busying himself with Derek’s fly.

    Derek would have used his nails to shred every piece of clothing Stiles had, but that’s not very elegant, and he’s an adult, so he takes the tee off as calmly as he can, though his shaky hands are not helpful. He has to remember himself numerous times that he’s currently standing in the middle of a public bathroom so he won’t lay Stiles down and have his way with him.

    “Stop thinking so much,” Stiles slurs, biting his earlobe in one swift move. “You’re kinda killing the mood, here.”

    “That’s because this bathroom is disgusting.” Derek rolls them over the sink until Stiles is the one against it. “What about a bed, or even a fucking couch?”

    Stiles babbles a bit when Derek sinks his teeth on the tender flesh of his neck. “ _Nrgh_ , that’s more than five miles away from here, and I need you,” he all but whines as he arches his neck to give Derek more space. “Right now.”

    Derek snickers against the tendon. “You sound so fucking needy — you become like this when you’re with others?”

    A beat of silence. Stiles scrapes his nails along Derek’s back. “Not of your goddamn business, you ass- _shit!_ Get in me already!”

    It bothers him a little, not knowing whether Stiles is this desperate when he has sex with someone else. Derek would like to think it’s only because of him, but Boyd and Scott’s words linger over his mind more than he intended. However, right now he’s horny as hell, he has Stiles all to himself, begging him to fuck his brains out… well, it’d be insane to say no.

    Enjoying Stiles’ neck as he leaves bruises and red marks on it with his teeth and beard, he whispers against it: “Turn around.”

    Stiles complies, wiggling his still-dressed ass at Derek. “Yeah, come on — condoms and lube are in my wallet.”

     _Always prepared_. Derek tries his best to ignore the brief flare of… jealousy? Disgust? Could be both. He’s still trying to push those thoughts to the back of his head as he yanks Stiles’ jeans down, taking the underwear with it. The ass itself is a marvelous sight, but combined with the rest of Stiles’ body is Derek’s new weakness. There are no tattoos on his back, and except from that French song, his chest is ink clear, as well. Both arms, however, are covered in them.

    Stiles shifts and wiggles his ass yet again, impatient. “You’ll have time to stare at them later, come on.”

    Something blooms in Derek’s gut. “Promise?”

    “Yeah, yeah, whatever — just put your fingers in me, you sap.”

    It’s no secret by now that Derek has a soft spot for Stiles when he turns bossy and starts throwing orders around, so of course Derek obeys him immediately, covering his fingers in lube and teasing Stiles’ ass for a while before letting his index slide in. The rim around his finger squeezes _tight_ , like it’s about to chop it off, but Derek works patiently, thrusting in and out until he’s able to add another one — that makes Stiles curse under his breath. When Derek glances at him, his arms are trembling as he tries to steady himself up.

    “Feels good?” he asks, trying to squeeze a third finger in. “Is it too much?”

    Stiles mid-snorts, mid-groans, meeting Derek’s thrusts, slamming his ass against his hand. “It’s not enough, never enough, oh my- right there.” So Derek has hit jackpot. “Twist your fingers — like that, _shit_.”

    After soothing his free hand over Stiles’ back, Derek lets his fingers wander; they find their way to a hard, leaking cock, so they wrap themselves around it. Derek tugs at it, and Stiles’ legs wobble. “Don’t- _fuck_ , I’m gonna die, I’m dying.”

    Derek places a kiss between Stiles’ shoulder blades. “But you’d miss the best part.”

    He slides his fingers in as deep as he can, curling them just enough to make Stiles cry out. “Stop, stop, or I’ll come so fucking — _please_ , Derek.”

    Those words do not go straight to Derek’s cock. Nope, not at all. Luckily, his stamina stops him from shooting his load in his pants like a fourteen-year-old. “Come on, then,” he whispers in Stiles’ ear. “I wanna see.”

    Stiles comes all over Derek’s fingers, slumping against the sink, arms shaking. He lets out a mewl that’s both adorable and extremely arousing, and Derek takes this as his cue to part Stiles’ ass cheeks with his hands and glide his engorged cock along the puckered skin. The hole is barely open, clenching around nothing as it impatiently waits for something to get inside of it.

    Out of breath, Stiles looks at him over his shoulders. “You gonna keep teasing me or are you- _ffffuck_.”

    Derek nudges the head of his cock on Stiles’ entrance, watching it disappear as he slides in as deep as he can possibly go. Soon enough, he’s buried completely in Stiles, skin against skin. Derek can feel drops of sweat already forming on his forehead.

    “Holy shit,” Stiles wheezes, bracing his arms around the sink. “Derek, oh my _god_.”

    His hands grip Stiles’ hips in place; he doesn’t dare to move, at least not until he’s sure Stiles’ okay with it. A few seconds go by, both of them panting over nothing at all, until Stiles clamps his ass around Derek’s cock. “Move, for fuck’s—”

    The rest of the sentence is drowned by a prolonged whine. Still holding his hips in place, Derek thrusts and it’s no gentle. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, actually: he meets Derek’s pounding, rocking his hips until they find a good rhythm, until their skins are slapping against each other, eliciting obscene sounds from the wet flesh.

    Derek pulls at Stiles’ hair, straighten him up. “Look at us,” he grits out, for there’s a mirror in front of them. Stiles opens his eyes, staring at their reflection: neck and chest flushed and exposed, Stiles is wrecked, moaning as Derek hits a particular sweet spot in him. He’s also having a hard time trying to stay on his feet. “Jesus, you look so good like this,” Derek hisses, scraping his nails against Stiles’ nipple. “You gonna come again, baby?”

    “Yes, fucking yes, keep going, keep- _shit_!”

    Derek turns his head around so he can shove his tongue into Stiles’ mouth. He swallows his moans, his quivering breaths, his own name — Derek loves him like this, vulnerable and so fucking loud.

    He doesn’t love, however, being interrupted, and that's exactly what happens when there’s a loud clatter and half of the sink falls off. Derek manages to keep Stiles from losing his right feet, dragging him as close as he can against his chest and stumbling backwards, even with his jeans pooled around his ankles.

    “The fuck just happened?” Stiles breathes, flushed and sweaty. They both are, actually. “Did we just—? Man, we just broke a sink.”

    “ _You_ broke it,” Derek accuses, resting his chin on top of Stiles’ shoulder. “You were the one braced against it.”

    “And you were the one pounding my ass quite violently!” Stiles reproaches. “It makes us both of us guilty.”

    Derek shrugs. “It seemed like you were having a good time,” he says. “And, my dick is still inside of you.”

    “I’m aware,” Stiles replies, squeezing his ass around Derek’s cock and making him bite down a groan. “Should we move to another sink or…?”

    Nowhere else looks clean enough to support a naked body, much less the wall or any other flat surface, to be honest, and since they refused taking a chance on the hand basins left, Derek had no choice but to pick Stiles up and slide home, just like that.

    Stiles has his arms wrapped around Derek’s hand. “Jesus, it feels bigger, thicker,” he whines, throwing his head back. “Like it’s about to split me in two.”

    “That good, huh?” Derek asks, voice strained. His legs start to shake, but he prays to the gods above for ten more minutes.

    “You’re killing me,” Stiles pants, stroking Derek’s hair with his fingers. He shifts in place, rocking back and forth. “Come on, harder.”

    So Derek gives it to him, hard and without a second thought. He grabs Stiles’ ass and kneads the cheeks, slaps them from time to time. It makes Stiles to yelp and squeeze around his cock even harder, which is good and bad at the same time. He could stay like this his entire life, and when Stiles chases his mouth and steals a clumsy, breathy kiss, he’s sure of it. Derek doesn’t know whether it’s love or what, but god, it makes his chest ache and his hips stutter.

    Stiles digs his fingernails in Derek’s scalp, saying “yes, yes” against his mouth, trying to meet Derek’s thrusts but failing spectacularly. He’s too spent, too tired to do anything else, except moaning and panting. Stiles’ dick is standing between them, flushed and leaking.

    Derek, however, is five seconds away from coming.

    “Do it, do it,” Stiles chants, resting their foreheads together. “Derek, I’m—“

    Digging his fingers into Stiles’ flesh, Derek gives one final thrust and comes hard, white lights taking over his vision, a final growl being ripped out of his throat. To his luck, Stiles comes too, almost immediately after, shouting and wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck even tighter.

    Derek steadies them by placing a hand on the nearest wall. “God, you weigh a lot.”

    “Excuse you, sir, I do not,” Stiles retorts, trying to be the sarcastic brat he is with no success: a goofy smile is plastered across his face. He lifts his ass so Derek can easily pull his dick out. “Are you okay?” he asks, when he has both feet on the ground. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

    “I’m exhausted,” Derek says, pulling up his underwear and jeans.

    “Tell me about it, I came twice.”

    Derek wants to look him in the eye and ask him if the others made him come twice, too—if they made him scream like he did. He doesn’t ask any of these questions, though, mostly because he’s too worried he’d catch something if he stays naked a millisecond longer. Also, because he can’t face Stiles, not when he’s got all these feelings bubbling under his skin.

    “Thank you for saving me from—you know, the sink,” he hears Stiles say. “And for not dropping me.”

    “Don’t mention it.”

    He can’t find his shirt, but then he remembers he left it flung over Stiles’ chair, up there, on stage. Half naked, Derek doesn’t know what to do, so he stares down, waiting for Stiles to get dressed.

    Somewhere in front of him, Stiles snorts. “You gonna look at me at some point or what?”

    Derek obliges, barely managing a poker face. “That’s not the face of someone who just had the greatest sex of his life,” Stiles tries to tease, but when Derek doesn’t smile, a frown appears on his forehead. “What is it? Hey, you can tell me, okay? I know I’m an asshole sometimes but—“

    “It’s just the things Boyd and Scott said,” he bursts out before he could stop himself. “About you and others.”

    Stiles doesn’t look impressed. “Are you fretting because I’ve had sex with other people?”

    Feeling dumb, Derek shrugs. “I guess.”

    “You’re ridiculous.”

    “Sorry.”

    “I’m sure you’ve had your share of partners, just like I’ve had,” Stiles goes on, walking up to Derek and placing a hand over his naked chest. “I wanted you to be my first, but you—“

    “I took off, yeah,” Derek sighs, covering Stiles’ hand with his own. “You were illegal and the sheriff’s kid. That was a no-no for me.”

    Stiles smirks. “Was I too tempting for you, Mister Hale?”

    “You have no idea.” Derek places a quick kiss on Stiles’ nose and walks towards the door. “Come on, I’m suffocating in here.”

    Boyd is still there when Derek flings the door open; there’s also a long line of men shifting on their feet, desperate to take a leak, and judging by the look of their faces, they’re not happy.

    “Finally!” Boyd says, rolling his eyes. “Everything all right? I heard something crash—“

    “Stiles broke a sink,” Derek states, trying not to sound too smug about it. “It literally broke in half.”

    Boyd stares at both of them, confused. “How the hell do you break— you know what? I don’t wanna know. Come on, Scott has been playing Taylor Swift since you two disappeared.”

    Couples are slow dancing pop ballads in a _rave_. Derek’s never seen a thing like this. All of a sudden, he’s being pulled into the mass of bodies, and he finds himself wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist.

    “Aren’t you supposed to go up there and clean Scott’s mess?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow at Stiles. “You might get in trouble.”

    “Rather be here,” Stiles declares, stroking Derek’s scalp. “Besides, people seem to like it.”

    “They do.”

    Scott’s visible through the smoke and blinding lights, dancing just like them with Allison, face hidden in the crook of her neck. However, Boyd looks like he’s about to murder someone, anyone… maybe he needed to get laid. And to his surprise, Derek spots Lydia still with Aiden, swinging at White Horse’s rhythm, sharing a few, chaste kisses from time to time.

    “Well, that escalated quickly.”

    Stiles, The Brat, snorts again. “I’m sure they’d say the same thing about us.”

    “It’s different. We have history.”

    “Sure, I used to make indecent propositions and you carried around a permanent boner.” Stiles strokes Derek’s cheek with his thumb. “That’s a very touching part of history.”

    Derek still doesn’t know if it’s love what he feels; it’d be ridiculous. He knows, however, that he wants to stay like this, close to Stiles, be able to touch him —either roughly or tenderly—, many, many times, and have his burning, loving eyes scorching holes all over his face.

    “I leave for Buffalo in three days,” Stiles blurts out. “Then for New York, then for Pitts. Tour stuff and shit.”

     _His luck, man_. “Oh, that’s—“ He can’t finish the sentence.

    “Great? Awesome?”

    Derek feels himself sulking. “Unfortunate.”

    “And why is that?” Stiles asks, which bothers Derek a lot because there’s no way Stiles _doesn’t know already_. “You had something in mind?”

    It’s like Stiles pushed The Sap button. “Dates, many of them… going to the beach, or to have dinner, you know. More slow dances, probably not to Taylor Swift, but you get the idea. Also, sex. A lot of it, too. Preferably on a bed.”

    Stiles is grinning at him like a child. “What else?”

    “I sort of want to be your plus one at Scott and Allison’s wedding,” Derek says, maybe too quickly, high-pitched and desperate, he’s not sure. “They seem… nice.”

    Letting out a breathy laugh, Stiles kisses him, long and languid, the slightest hint of tongue making its way into Derek’s mouth. “You’re such a cheese ball, oh my god, _Derek_.”

    “So, that’s a yes?”

    “Of course it’s a yes,” Stiles says, giving him a slight slap on the nape. “We’re so going together. Scott is going to flip.”

    Derek would be a thousand times happier if it weren’t for—

    “And about… the tour thing,” Stiles adds after reading his mind, apparently. “You should come. It’ll take two weeks, tops.”

    “Really?” Derek asks, taken aback.

    Stiles nods, still smiling like a fool. “Yeah, I mean, I know it’s too sudden but we could always hang out while we’re both here? See what happens?”

     _I already know I want to spend the next months of my life glued to your damn face_. “Sure.”

    “I’m staying at Scott’s.”

    It sounds perfectly innocent, like a random observation unworthy of Derek’s attention, but it’s Stiles’ gaze that has him hardening (in his pants!) again, and something warm starts bouncing in his chest.

    “My bed is bigger,” he says, nonchalantly. “I could always sexile Lydia. She owes me.”

    Stiles’ response is another fervent kiss.

 

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh, I had all ready to post this shit and all of a sudden, my laptop thought it'd be very funny to shut down. I'll try to remember everything I can.
> 
> You might have MUST DEFINITELY found some errors in here. It's probably because I write at ungodly hours and I can't drink coffee like I used to - also, because English is not my first language, and I do not have a beta to check my work, so sorry about that. You can always point me out the things I got wrong.
> 
> My knowledge of DJ equipment is practically zero. I basically googled "DJ things" and "Avicii equipment" and a bunch of weird things popped up, so I typed everything down without really knowing if they were legit or not.
> 
> I have a soft spot for Happy (or Magic) Brownies and weed in general. Don't do drugs, kids.
> 
> At first, I wanted Derek to be a Spanish TA, but then I remembered I had another fic (still working on it) in which Derek is a Latin American Lit teacher. That's why I changed it to French.
> 
> "Bésame Mucho" ("Kiss Me A Lot") is a famous bolero (slow-tempo Latin music), recognized in 1999 as the most sung and recorded Mexican song in the world. That's why Stiles says "How unoriginal" when Derek tells him it's one of his favorite songs, because practically everyone knows its lyrics. The two verses Stiles has tatted up below his collarbone are from the song "Ne Me Quittes Pas" ("Don't Leave Me Now"), and, translated to English, it reads: "I will make a kingdom / where love will be king." Don't listen to it, it's a extremely sad song. I cry buckets.
> 
> Also, mescal is a thing you should try if you're sad and heartbroken.
> 
> I wasn't sure about the name of this fic, I'm terrible at naming things. The good thing is, you can always play around with other people's titles and pray for not being discovered. I'm sorry, Mister Chbosky. 
> 
> Thanks to Paige (isaacmcall on Tumblr - I love her username!) for giving me this idea and for letting me write it. Also, I want to thank my friend Itza, who doesn't have an AO3 account but likes spending her time reading Sterek porn.


End file.
